


Role Reversal

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, Fisting, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-30
Updated: 2009-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finds a way to feel powerful again, even if his abilities aren't what they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Role Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Yet Another Heroes Anonymous Kink Meme](http://47-trek-47.livejournal.com/280938.html).

Peter knows the type. Hell, he _was_ the type, not so long ago. Wanton, a little lost, looking for someone to come along and take him in hand. The guy looking at him from across the dance floor is definitely that type. Wavy blond hair, an eager smile, and the desperate edge of someone looking for danger.

 

And Peter is dangerous: a fugitive, with his abilities whittled down to one at a time, bereft of friends. He is tired of feeling powerless. Peter raises his chin at the man, and glances significantly at the door.

 

The man swallows hard. Peter knows the feeling: _I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t make it so easy. God, but I want to. I want him._ The guy nods back, and starts navigating his way through the crowd, toward the door.

 

Peter is half-surprised it works. Is this the kind of man Peter is now? The hard, appraising bastard who can snap his finger and have another man on his knees? Peter thinks of the future self he’d met, the one with the scar and the anger. The one they’d called a terrorist. Yeah, he probably is that type of man.  
\--

 

“Greg,” the man introduces himself.

 

“You can call me sir, and nothing else,” Peter says. He likes the way Greg’s eyes widen in surprise and arousal. “Come on.”

 

He doesn’t say anything in the cab, but he rubs Greg’s cock through his too-tight jeans the whole way. Not enough to get him off, just enough to tease. He doesn’t need to look to know the effect he’s having. Instead, he looks at the window at the passing lights of the city. For the first time in weeks, he feels in control.  
\--

 

The staff at the Roosevelt Hotel thinks they’ve run “Mr. Miller’s” credit card, so no one should come looking for Peter tonight. Once they’re in his room, Peter says, “What’s your safe word?”

 

Greg stands there, open-mouthed for a moment, until he stammers, “Casper.”

 

“Casper. Okay,” Peter says. “Clothes off.”

 

He knows he’s being an ass, intentionally keeping this guy guessing. But he used to love the thrill: the heady recklessness of submitting himself to god-knows-what.

 

Peter grabs a beer from the mini bar, toes off his shoes, and sits down in the chair by the bed. Greg is on unsure footing, but he seems eager to please. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it to the side.

 

Peter offers neither praise nor criticism. He opens his beer and takes a swig, casually, as if he were watching a football game, or the weather channel. This indifference, this arrogance, used to spur him to greater efforts, when he was the one in Greg’s position. And Greg seems to be made of similar stuff.

 

Greg turns away from Peter and bends over slowly to untie his shoes and step out of them. Then he turns back around and keeps his eyes trained on Peter as he slowly and deliberately undoes his jeans. He shimmies out of them and kicks them aside. Now he’s standing there in just his briefs. His hand slides teasingly down his belly, coming to rest on the bulge in his underwear.

 

“Hands off,” Peter snaps. Greg snatches his hand away as if it’s been burned. “That’s mine. You don’t touch it unless I tell you to.”

 

Greg flushes a little, a pink blush that trails down his neck. He stands still, waiting for further orders. Fast learner.

 

“Turn around, shorts off,” Peter says.

 

Greg turns around, sticking his ass out for Peter as he works his briefs down.

 

“Grab your ankles,” Peter says.

 

Greg does. Peter’s up and over to him in seconds, landing a flat hand against his ass-cheek with a resounding smack. Greg takes in a small gasp of breath, but he doesn’t object. Peter follows that up with ten more swats, five for each cheek, watching the skin grow rosy.

 

Greg doesn’t say a damn word. Peter is getting hard now, and he starts to understand what he represented for all of those men he’d let take him home back when he needed to be dominated the way he’d needed oxygen. Having another human being obey and love you for it: that is power.

 

“Knees,” Peter says.

 

Greg drops to his knees and hisses when his sore ass makes contact with the soles of his feet.

 

Peter undoes his belt and his zipper, and fishes out his growing erection. “Suck it.”

 

Greg bends willingly to the task. He wraps one hand around the base while skillfully tonguing the head. Again, Peter gives him no direction. He just rests a hand on top of Greg’s head: it could be a warning or a caress, and Greg has no way to know which one.

 

At least Greg is good at this. Not that Peter would tell him so, but he doesn’t need to. His cock is a telling barometer of the guy’s skill: in a few minutes Peter’s hard, and Greg has worked his way about half-way down the shaft, enthusiastically bobbing his head and sucking everything he can reach.

 

He looks entirely too comfortable, and Peter decides to take it to the next level. He grabs a handful of Greg’s hair and yanks him down onto his cock, forcing him to deep throat. Greg grunts in surprise, and his hands flutter to Peter’s hips, frantically pushing him off. Peter lets him go, and Greg draws back, gulping in air.

 

“Please, I don’t like choking,” Greg says. He seems almost apologetic. Peter finds he doesn’t care.

 

“Are you going to use your safe word?”

 

Greg gapes at him a moment, then shakes his head.

 

“Then shut up,” Peter says. He pushes his cock back into Greg’s mouth, shoving it all the way in just to prove a point. Greg gags around his length: his throat convulses around Peter’s cock, and tears spring to his eyes. Peter holds him there several seconds while Greg tries valiantly to control his struggles. Finally, he shoves Greg to the floor, where he lays gasping and coughing.

 

“Hands and knees,” Peter says. “Now.” He grabs the bottle of lube from the dresser while Greg is getting into position. Just because he can, he gives Greg’s ass another hard swat before he drizzles lube onto his fingers. “Spread,” he says.

 

Greg reaches back and pulls his ass cheeks apart. Peter takes a moment to wonder at this: that he has only to command, and this man will do what he says. He feels almost like a god. Or at least an angel. He could hurt Greg very badly if he wanted to. He could probably kill him, come to that. It’s suddenly very clear to Peter why angels fall.

 

Peter shakes off his introspection in favor of action. He shoves two slick fingers into Greg’s ass. He’s all business: he’s making no secret that he’s not looking out for Greg’s pleasure in all of this, but that fact itself seems to be keeping Greg rock-hard. Peter wishes he’d thought to bring toys: a cock-ring, and perhaps a vibrator to torment his little sub while Peter got his cock sucked. _Next time out,_ Peter thinks.

 

He shoves another finger in, and twists the three of them around, stretching ruthlessly. He slaps Greg’s ass with his free hand, and enjoys the clench around his fingers, like Greg’s trying to draw him further in. On a whim, he adds a fourth finger. Greg draws in a sharp breath. Peter drizzles more lube around the gaping hole as he works his fingers in and out.

 

Greg’s breath is coming in harsh little pants, and Peter can tell he’s trying desperately to relax. Peter’s been in a similar situation a time or two, and he knows what’s it’s like to want to please, to be good, and obey. But now, he’s not the one submitting. He folds his thumb into his other fingers, and presses his whole hand forward.

 

“No—.” Greg’s response is an abortive gasp of the word.

 

Peter stops. “What was that?”

 

Greg is gulping in great big breaths, clearly trying to relax.

 

“Did I hear the safe word?” Peter asks pointedly.

 

“I…” Greg squirms uncomfortably, but Peter grabs his hip with his free hand to hold him in place, and he settles down. “No,” he whispers.

 

Peter shoves his hand forward, and Greg wails in distress. “You know the safe word,” Peter says indifferently. But he knows, he _knows_ why Greg can’t use it. He was this needy, not long ago at all. He refused the failure of incomplete submission. He knew it was dangerous, reckless, stupid even, but the thrill, the _exhilaration,_ of knowing he’d survived intact, gave him strength.

 

From where Peter sits now, Greg’s submission seems like a drug. He longs to see how far he can push the man. But he feels the darkness rising up inside him, and he knows he can’t go there yet. Not just yet. Soon. He is almost there. But for now, he has a little mercy left.

 

He pulls his hand out of Greg’s ass, and the man sobs in relief. From there, it’s easy to roll on a condom and slide into Greg’s stretched hole. He screws Greg at a leisurely pace, landing smacks on Greg’s ass or thighs as the mood strikes him.

 

Greg is still hard, despite the pain he was so recently in, and Peter leans forward to drape himself over Greg’s back. “Now you can touch yourself,” he says. “I want you to come with my cock inside you.”

 

Greg’s hand goes immediately to his dick, and he starts pumping furiously. Peter knows the frustration of waiting, of being ordered not to touch, so he’s not surprised when Greg comes in a minute flat. He shudders under Peter, and his ass clenches pleasantly around Peter’s dick.

 

Before Greg is even finished, Peter pulls out and strips off the condom. With his foot, he pushes Greg onto his back. The man stares at him, pupils blown wide. He’s blissed out and still trembling in the aftershock of his orgasm.

 

Peter takes himself in hand and strokes roughly. He feels a rush of power as Greg whispers, “Please.” His come lands in thick, ropey stripes across Greg’s belly and his chest, marking Peter’s dominance as surely as if he’d written his name on the man. It’s a beautiful sight. It’s a sight that makes Peter certain that he’s nowhere near as powerless as he thought.


End file.
